


Little Differences

by gwydionx



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, Gen, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 22:49:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3746450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwydionx/pseuds/gwydionx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Turgon is sent to collect Fëanor from the forge. Fëanor is confronted with the depth of his own anger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Differences

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. 
> 
> Originally under the title _Vociferous_.

The hammer fell in a cadence, ringing about the forge—a silver blade took shape beneath the firm hand. The smith's face was resolved, constant; a fire danced in his keen eyes, betraying the fire within. He was breaking the unwritten law. He was forging a sword.

Fëanor knew his deed. He knew creating such a weapon, useless for hunting, was a boundary he could never return from. Once this blade, this master blade, danced in the light of the Trees, no deed or word could allay the sword's power. 

A voice sprang like an unwelcome brook, babbling over smooth grey stones: "Uncle! Uncle Fenor! Auntie told me to tell you that dinners on the board." A small hand tugged at his pant leg, undaunted by the hammer, anvil, and blazing metal. Looking down, Fëanor saw innocence, a treasure lost to him long ago by his own bidding - Turgon, his brother's son not five years old. "She said t'come get you, and tell you dinner's ready!"

Fëanor scowled. "I am not yet finished."

"But dinner's ready, Uncle Fenor!" The boy babbled, undaunted. Raven hair hung mussed and disheveled about his small head. "Auntie Nerdnul says to tell you that dinner's ready. It's'r favorite and she wants you to come to dinner. Please come to dinner! Daddy says he'll tell me an old story if I come and don't you want to hear it too, Uncle Fenor?"

The boy was overwhelming. "I'm working. I will eat later."

"But—"

"Later, Turgon. I am working!"

"What're you making? Daddy says you're working naught but ill. What does that mean?"

Fëanor growled dangerously. "Your father knows little, if he speaks so."

Puzzled, Turgon fell to silence. But he did not leave. The harsh ring of hammer on steel on anvil bit into the evening.

"Are you my uncle, or my daddy's brother?"

The hammer rang again, ignoring the boy.

"'Cause you can't be both, you know. Either you're a brother or an uncle, and I think you're my uncle. Fingon says I'm his brother and mommy's son but I can't be a son and a brother, can I Uncle Fenor?"

He was slowly cracking. "Go away, boy."

"But—"

"Turgon—"

"Please come t'dinner? Auntie said—"

" _Leave me_!" Fëanor snarled. He rounded on the boy, all rage, and realized he still held the hammer upheld.

To his credit, Turgon did not flinch. "I... Don' y'want to join us?"

Fëanor faltered. How often had his own sons stood in that exact place, and he had laughed with them, ruffling their hair. Fatherhood was an honor - what was so different about this boy than his own sons? Small, wide eyes stared up at him in fear, masked by startled confusion.

The boy had his father's eyes. His grandmother's eyes.

Not the eyes of Míriel.

"Go, boy. Tell your aunt will not come."

Standing at the anvil, hearing the soft patter of disheartened feet, Fëanor gripped the hammer tighter.


End file.
